


Kingfisher

by travellinghopefully



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 17:28:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4633932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from dw hurt/comfort challenge on tumblr</p>
<p>so, Clara is hurt, the Doctor looks after her</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kingfisher

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

The words ran over and over through his head, repeating with the thudding of his hearts, repeating with the rasping and gasping of his breath.

The TARDIS was only a mile away, at most, he could do this. He could bring her safely home.

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

His mind replayed the events from earlier, as he struggled to run, as he held Clara against him.

He had picked her up from her house, after Christmas he had hoped she would make the TARDIS her home, but that hadn’t happened. He had squashed down the sadness this caused him, reasoning of course she wouldn’t want to be with him. She loved travel and adventure and excitement, not him.

He had asked her where she wanted to go, as always, leaving the decision up to her. There were places he wanted to go, wonders he wanted to show her – but he made suggestions, and let her decide. She looked a little frazzled, but he had learned to keep his comments on her appearance to himself, they were rarely met with agreement, or encouragement.

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

NO! Concentrate on earlier. Don’t think about now. Don’t look back. Don’t listen to the other footsteps. 

Breathe and run.

She had chosen somewhere quiet, somewhere relaxing, somewhere peaceful. He had suggested the moons of Saroz, a dramatic meteor shower, a cosmic rainbow, singing crystal caves, but no, that didn’t meet her exacting specifications. She wanted tranquil, she wanted gentle weather, small, harmless wildlife.

She insisted.

So he agreed. He could refuse her nothing.

She had packed a picnic, making sure to put in more dessert than anything else, having abandoned earlier attempts to get the Doctor to eat what she considered a healthier diet.

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

He shook his head to clear his vision, he ignored his own pain, shoving it away from him. He adjusted how he held Clara, using one hand to keep her head motionless against his shoulder. Not looking at her still closed eyes.

They had landed on Winfell. The Doctor had controlled the rolling of his eyes and in no way grumpily shoved his hands in his pockets. They might as well have gone to Hampshire. The whole of time and space to chose from, the infinite majesty of the universe and he couldn’t discern any difference between where they had travelled to and rural England. He huffed in irritation, but didn’t utter a murmur of protest when she handed him the basket and blanket. She carried a book.

She set off ahead of him – always ignoring the injunction – don’t wander off. She could move surprisingly quickly and with singular determination for someone so short. He kept her in sight easily enough. He used his free hand to scan their surroundings with his sonic, nothing unusual at all. That irritated him, what could she expect him to do?

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

His breath was coming in ragged sobs, every clump of grass seemed determined to wrong foot him. He had stumbled more than once, twisting awkwardly to ensure Clara didn’t fall from his arms. Something had popped in his knee and his shoulders burned.

She had chosen a spot close to a group of ponds. Not too boggy, no clouds of annoying insects, trees to provide shade. She took the blanket and spread it out carefully. She took the basket and laid out items. She lay down on the blanket and began to read her book. He had huffed again and set off to walk round the grouping of small lakes. 

He examined the trees, the plants, some small rodents, a collection of brightly coloured birds. That occupied at least 17 minutes.

He circled round and round, constantly glancing up to reassure himself that Clara was exactly where he’d left her. He spent sometime on his knees, nose deep in the grass looking at small clumps of fungi – they were nothing new.

Eventually he stomped back to the blanket and sat down on the very edge and poked in the basket to see if there were any jelly babies. There weren’t.

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

He could see the TARDIS, they were nearly there, they were.............He pitched forward. Something had struck him forcefully. He felt searing pain, he gasped and struggled to cover the remaining ground.

Clara had plated food for him, carefully placing it by his knee. He poked and sniffed at things he couldn’t identify. He wasn’t very gracious. They didn’t speak. They didn’t talk. Their not talking was almost an art form. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say, except all the words he never said. Clara concentrated on her book.

Eventually he had lain back too, and stared at the clouds, reciting equations in his head. He found paper and pencil in his pockets and set about proving a theorem he hadn’t considered for sometime.

Clara exclaimed over the brightly coloured birds, touching his elbow to gain his attention – he tried not to react as if he had been electrocuted. He informed her he had seen them. He returned to his scribbling.

Somehow, at some point, he had fallen asleep. He awoke to feel Clara’s hand softly petting his hair. He held himself still for as long as he could. He ached to lean into her touch. When he realised he couldn’t bite back a whimper, he made a big show of waking up. Clara teased him about superior Time Lord physiology and the need for sleep. He didn’t tell her about the nightmares, he didn’t tell her the only time he slept now was when she was near. He had probably accumulated only 23 minutes in the last month.

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

He fell through the TARDIS door. 

He closed his ears to the mournful cloister bell. 

He laid Clara down on the nearest chair, just for a few moments, just to slip the TARDIS into the vortex, away from harm.

She had leaned against him when he’d sat up, her head dropping against his shoulder, her book falling from her hand. He allowed one hand to curve around her, holding her carefully in place, allowing her to sleep. His eyes had closed again as he inhaled the scent of her hair, something indefinable and lavender. He didn’t sleep, he was hyperaware, storing away every moment of having his Clara this close. He memorised the colour of every strand of her hair, counted every freckle.  


In the far distance thunder rolled. The Doctor scowled, thunder wasn’t permissible. Clara stirred against him – she pressed a gentle kiss against his cheek and commenced teasing him about the weather. He felt himself falling into the softness that was her. He fought to keep his hands still. She misinterpreted his silence as grumpiness. He allowed her to think what she chose. He was considering if both his hearts had stopped.

The moment when she leant forward to being repacking the basket was the instant everything changed.

The sky exploded the distant thunder upon them. Torrential rain and biting hail turned the ground around them into mud. Clara had laughed.

She had laughed.

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

He picked her up and carried her carefully into the nearest room. The TARDIS had rearranged to make this the sick bay. He scanned Clara with utmost diligence. He looked at the results and wept. Choking on a sob he carefully cut away her clothing and set to work. He administered fluids, drugs to stabilise, drugs to counteract the poison, drugs to hold off death. He cleaned the cuts, he sutured the deeper wounds. He applied dressings and salves.

He wasn’t sure at what point he passed out. He had jerked awake suddenly, grasping for Clara’s hand.

She was stable, merciful gods.

He ignored the chill and numbness in his own extremities and cautiously redressed each of her injuries. Her rest was fitful and he added more painkillers to the cocktail of drugs he treated her with.

He didn’t see what hit her first. One minute she was spinning round, her hands upraised, laughing at the downpour. Next, she was tossed across the landscape like a rag doll as something knocked into her.

His first thought was that she’d been struck by lightning, that was idiotic, he would have seen lightning.

Then something, many somethings came out of the water. The downpour blurred their forms. He hadn’t yet started to run. Why hadn’t he run? He had calmly (this wasn’t calm, it was a dissociative state, he couldn’t breakdown now) walked towards Clara, somehow expecting her to spring up. Reaching her side he found her crumpled, her limbs at appalling angles and a hideous wound across the back of her head. He may have howled. 

He hesitated to move her, not sure if his actions would make her injuries worse. He scrabbled in his pockets for his sonic, intending to scan her. He had barely raised his head as the first missile struck him. He wasn’t as hurt as Clara, but he was stunned. 

He had to blink blood out of his eyes and fight down nausea as he struggled to stand.

He looked round. The storm had stopped. There was nothing here except Clara and himself. He dispassionately noted the shaking of his hands as he scanned the surroundings and then Clara. He wished that Clara’s scan showed as little as the environment. She was gravely injured, he must get her to the TARDIS, he must make this right.

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

He didn’t move from Clara’s side. He held her hand, he stroked her hair, he spoke to her and told her everything he never said.

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

He hadn’t been sure when the storm started again or when the things had closed round him. He remembered pain, he remembered violence. He closed his mind to what he had done to ensure Clara and he had survived. He knew he would pay in his nightmares, in darkness, he always paid. However fast he ran, wherever he travelled, he always paid.

Too long he had ignored his own injuries. He wouldn’t leave her side. She didn’t wake, why didn’t she wake? His throat was so tight, his eyes burned with unshed tears and his chest had iron bands pressing in.

He fussed round her, checking every detail again and again. As he moved, he ignored the pain that lanced through him, he ignored his own blood dripping on the floor. Any agony he felt was only what he deserved.

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

The days passed and still she didn’t wake. He pressed his lips against her forehead and murmured over and over how he loved her. Begging for another impossible chance.

Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted. Clara had insisted.

Clara awoke to the sound of the cloister bell. She was disorientated and her mouth felt as if it was clogged with cotton wool. She struggled to sit up, knocking various things off the bedside table in her attempt.

The Doctor whirled round at the sound. His face broke into a rare smile, transforming his face. 

Thank the gods.

Then he fell, his body collapsing into darkness. The monsters claiming him in their eager embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> first go at hurt/comfort - not sure whether the constant flashbacks work or not
> 
> and this definitely needs another chapter, or an epilogue, or something.....but this was so hard, you'll have to be patient
> 
> I set out with the aim of harmless tea and sympathy......look where I ended up
> 
> as usual, if you hated it - let me know, if you loved it - let me know, if you want to be anymouse use the email on my profile
> 
> and I have nothing against Hampshire


End file.
